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George Orwell wrut a book, tha knows, The Road ter Wiggin Pier. He tried fot tell it eaw it wuz. Un eaw folk lived reawnd here. He tried fot give a detailed view. Abeawt th'unemployed un't poor. He even lived among um aw. Fot help im larn some moo'er.
Worr a poxy darty job it wuz. Enough fot mek thi skraahk. Conditions were'nt reight gradely, werk'in undergreawnd. Hot un cramped un dusty,wi not much room fot turn'in reawnd.
Picks un shovells, scrawp'in coal, in order't get their tally's. They trudged wom in their pit dirt. When their shifts were done. It were ard fot tell which wuz thi Dad, black faces, every one.
This is wee'er yo'd see aw't scars, the pit faw aftermath. Dark black lines across their backs, wee'er coal geet under't skin. The wives would scrub but neyer would they be laahk what they'd once bin.
Four rooms, two up two deawn. Sometimes flea ridden holes. Leak'in roof, walls faw'in deawn un damp in moo'ist er't bricks. Windows would'nt opp'n reet. Rent six bob un rates at thee un six.
Tha were fain if tha'd even geet a job. Even digg'in coal. He wrote mortality wuz very heigh un illnesses were rife. Un generally or't folk areawnd these times had a bloody awful life
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